The Forbidden Ball
by cinnamonbasket
Summary: Fairweller & Clover's courtship-what might have happened.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

Fairweller did not know what to do about Miss Clover.

He was fond of her, to be sure. Fond in the same way he was fond of the whole Wentworth family, which was in fact, very much-although they did not know it. (And, he wryly admitted to himself, probably did not care.)

But Miss Clover. Somehow, in the six months he had been gone to war, she had transformed into a Helen of Troy. All the Wentworth princesses were pretty enough, to be sure, but Miss Clover transcended Beautiful and ascended into the Divine.

And that concerned him, deeply.

The day he left for Eathesbury, after the ships had been loaded and creaked in the ocean's bob, and he stood on the dock with the portmaster-overseeing that all the king's horses and all the king's men were put together properly on every ship-the sea air spraying them, and salt water stung the wound on his neck, a young Delchastrian gentleman appeared at his side with several of his friends, laughing as familiar as though they'd been there the whole time.

"You're the Eathesburian prime minister!" he said, removing his hat and grabbing Fairweller's hand. He shook it heartily. "Do you know the princesses well?"

The gentleman was younger than Fairweller, and not nearly as tall. He had to look up to meet Fairweller's eyes.

"I am a member of their household," said Fairweller, turning back to the line of ships. The warning in his voice was lost on the gentleman.

"Then you do!" said the gentleman enthusiastically, pounding him on the back. "Tell me, the pretty one-is she as beautiful as they all say? Borne on the wings of angels? It is only-I want to know if Eathesbury is worth my time."

His friends, all well-dressed fops, hung on the wet air, thirsty for answers.

Fairweller's answer came in the form of turning around very s-l-o-w-l-y and bestowing the man with such a frigid glare that even His Royal Highness would have been proud.

The offending gentlemen cowered and slunk away.

Fairweller paced the ship on the two-day voyage back to Eathesbury, wishing he had boxed the smugness straight off their faces. He had every right to do so-he _was_ a member of the royal household, after all. A politically compulsory member, but a member notwithstanding. He felt especially vexed, as it was Miss Clover the man had been referring to. He was certain of it. Miss Clover, the golden-haired, rosy-cheeked princess who was most like their mother, always so kind to her younger sisters and yes-even to _him_, unfeasible as that was, and here they wanted to play her like a sport. Because she was _pretty_.

_Borne on the wings of angels..._Bah!

And then, when Fairweller arrived at the D'Eathe palace, weary from the journey and knowing the great stack of paperwork that needed tending to in the library, his neck stinging, and lo and behold, there she was, standing before him like an angel-a _furious _ angel-upset to tears and shoving hot tea into his hands and before he knew it he had drank three cups of tea under her glare, two muffins, a slice of bread and cheese, and wondering what exactly had just happened.

A seed of..._something_...was sown in his chest that day.

It nurtured and grew, slowly, every time he returned to the Palace, and she appeared at the library desk with a small pot of steaming tea, set it down before him, then withdrew to one of the library sofas with a book. She would read quietly as Fairweller tended to paperwork and drank the tea. When he had finished, she would close the book and come to the desk to take the dishes away.

"Thank you, Miss Clover," he would say.

She would pause, hands on the cup and teapot, looking at the shrapnel wound on his neck. Her deep blue eyes would fill with tears.

"It is getting better," he would assure her, worried that she might burst into tears.

She would nod and sweep from the room with the dishes, all without a word.

Odd, how he grew fond of these wordless visits. Each day, he took longer and longer to finish the tea, listening to the pages of her book turning and her gentle laughter when she read clever passages. He felt pleased she seemed to find solace in his company; he began to see himself as her protector these few hours a day.

One particular day, a fortnight after he had returned, Miss Clover had not come to the desk when he had finished. Concerned, he searched and found her nestled at the back of the library on a threadbare sofa, fast asleep. Unsure of whether to awaken her or let her sleep, he remained still, taken by the gentle rise and fall of her breathing, her golden hair tumbling over her shoulders, her dark lashes against her cheeks.

He winced, thinking of the men in Delchastire who had vyed for her beauty. It seemed rather unfair to him. If anyone should be loved for the essence of who they were, it ought to be Miss Clover. She had a golden heart.

Miss Clover stirred; her eyes fluttered open, and she did not recoil when she caught sight of Minister Fairweller standing nearby. Instead, she smiled. Very rarely did Minister Fairweller have anyone smile at him, that he took her smile and locked it in a part of his heart.

"M-Minister," she stammered. "F-forgive me, I-I was so-so tired-"

"It is all right," he said hastily. "I know you have been keeping late nights."

Clover blushed pink to her ears. Minister Fairweller silently cursed himself. It was no secret to the household that the girls danced at night, but he knew he needn't be so blunt about it.

Her sisters burst through the doors then; bringing their constant companions Cacophony, Chaos, and Happiness with them, and Fairweller retreated back to the desk.

"_There_ you are!" said Bramble, as they gathered around Clover at the sofa and pulled her to her feet, Clover blinking awake. "We've been looking for you everywhere. We even looked in the attics."

"M-Minister F-f-airwller needed his t-t-tea," she said quietly. "He's-still mending-"

"Ugh, do you really still worry about that? He's going to live, no matter what we do. Come on."

They left the library in a mass of black skirts and harried words and laugher; amongst them, Clover glanced back at Minister Fairweller, and smiled apologetically. It hit Fairweller like an arrow to the chest, and tugged at his heart as though a string had tied itself from his heart to Miss Clover and pulled and pulled as she left the room. An affection had taken hold of him.

Fairweller was falling in love.


	2. Chapter 2

_***Author's Note*** _

_I'm totally new to and don't know if author's notes are allowed, but what the heck, here're my notes anyway :D Nothing exciting to explain, other than I hope you guys enjoy the story! There should be 7 chapters altogether, and I've got two day jobs so it may take a while to get them all written up, but I hope I can make them good enough to be worth the wait. ^_^_

**Chapter 2**

Fairweller was an unromantic man.

He allowed himself opera, when he visited Delchastire, and that was all. A Temperance man, he never drank, he wore black, and he did not care to attend soirees and dances. Courtship was a distant chore, a passing ship on the horizon. He supposed that one day he _would_ find a wife, when his parliamentary duties were over, someone who knew how to manage the domestic affairs of a household and volunteer for The Ladies' Aide and host dinners, if needed. Perhaps a widow.

And then, love would come later.

The day he realized how much he cared for Miss Clover, Fairweller removed himself from the Palace and rode LadyFair through the wood, galloping over fallen logs and upturned roots. Riding always cleared his mind and drove sense into him. Trees blurred past until the sky dimmed and the stars came out, and when he closed his eyes, Fairweller could see trees blurring past in his head.

It was an ill match. He knew that straightway. For one, he was a fair bit older than her. Not enough to be scandalous, but enough to raise eyebrows. Fairweller was not an eyebrow-raiser. He was not his father.

Secondly, the King _did not like him._ Fairweller had the great privilege of being punched in the face by the King, the night when the election ballots had been counted out in his favor. Fairweller was a Whig, and the King a Monarchist, and furthermore the King had remembered wholly the previous Fairwellian prime minister, and naturally did not want another. There was nothing more to say on that score.

At any rate-and this was the real point of contention-why _would_ Miss Clover want him? Him, a disagreeable, cold and blunt Temperance man with a wardrobe full of black suits and a closet full of skeletons. It seemed patently clear to Fairweller that Miss Clover could have any gentleman she wished, and it certainly wouldn't be _him_.

So it was. Fairweller returned to his manor in Bromwich, a two hour's ride from the royal palace, utterly determined to keep these passions from ruling him.

His steward, Mr. Arkwright, a man of gray hair and warm eyes, noticed Fairweller's discontent as he ate dinner-alone at the head of his long, polished table-and asked him what the matter was.

"I hardly know," said Fairweller, throwing his fork down. "Too much quiet? This manor is a tomb."

Several minutes later, the banging of pots and pans echoed from the kitchens, the servants' attempts to make him a happy master. Fairweller pushed his unfinished dinner away, and left again, making for his stables.

The next few weeks, Fairweller spent a great deal of time with his prize-winning horses, trying to drive Miss Clover from his mind and soul. By now the King had returned, and Fairweller did not need to be at the palace every day. A relief. Absence made the heart grow absenter.

He returned to the palace several weeks later, to help with parliamentary business, certain his affliction had waned. But then, he caught a glance of Clover with her sisters outside the library, and absence, he realized, did _not_ make the heart grow colder. It made it beat like mad. It made it cry in actual pain. And in tender regard. And in longing.

Fairweller's trembling hands fumbled with the papers on the King's desk.

Not long after, he saw her again in the gardens. In spite of being in Mourning, the princesses were allowed into the gardens on the pretext of Royal Business, a game where well-born gentlemen would come from all over the continent to try and sort out where the princesses danced at night. The old D'Eathe palace, Fairweller knew, was full of old magic passages, and he had guessed weeks before they'd found a passage to dance in, and he surmised the King knew it as well. The entire charade was, indeed, simply the King's rather clumsy way of having his daughters meet gentlemen. Fairweller did not like having so many gentlemen about the household, but he did have to admit, the princesses seemed much happier outside of the Palace.

He froze when he saw them all gathered together on the open grass, laughing and chattering and watching Miss Azalea, the eldest princess, teach them a dance. From the long red sash in her hands, he recognized it as the Entwine, an old Eathesburian dance. Hollyhock, one of the little princesses with bright red hair and freckles, held the other end of the sash, playing the part of the gentleman.

"See, you _loop_ the sash around the gentleman-like so," Miss Azalea was saying as she swooped the long sash over Hollyhock's head, "and when it's fallen to his ankles, you _yank_ it, hard-and-"

The ribbon pulled Hollyhock's feet up from under her, and she tumbled back into the grass. The girls burst into a uproarious round of giggles.

"Now we just need a gentleman to try it on!" squeaked Hollyhock, leaping to her feet and beaming.

"Right, but who would be stupid enough to-" Bramble looked up and spotted Fairweller, at the edge of the foilage, and her yellow-green eyes brightened. "Faaaairwelllerrrr!" Her voice became treacle sweet.

Fairweller stepped forward from the shadows of the trees, removed his hat, and bowed, wary. The girls beamed.

"Clover's coming of-age soon," said Azalea. "We're trying to teach her the Entwine. For her first ball."

Fairweller glanced at Clover, who blushed deeply at her hands. His heart twisted.

"Where is your gentleman guest?" said Fairweller, who knew the girls weren't allowed out into the gardens without a gentleman to entertain.

"Lord Bachmeier needed something interesting to look at," said Bramble. "He's taking a tour of the Portrait Gallery."

Fairweller knew that meant they had locked him in the Gallery. Hollyhock piped up:

"He wath staring at Clov-"

Delphinium clamped a hand over Hollyhock's mouth.

Clover, sitting on the grass next to them, buried her face in her hands with embarrassment.

Fairweller, all of a sudden, was in an ill temper.

"He was?" he said.

"It's fine," said Azalea quickly. "Minister, would you be our gentleman for a moment? I want to teach my sisters a step of the Entwine."

"No," said Fairweller, envisioning Lord Bachmeier's nails being pulled from his fingers. He continued: "I am morally opposed to the Entwine."

The princesses cast glances at each other, confused.

"Morally opposed?" said Azalea.

"Minister, if you can't dance it, just _say_ you can't-" Bramble began.

"I do not tie up ladies," Fairweller interrupted.

A pause. Birds chirped.

"Oh, Minister, it's just a dance," said Azalea, exasperated.

"Is it?" said Minister Fairweller, harshly. "As I recall, the Entwine is a pantomime dance of how the High King D'Eathe would lure young ladies into the palace, violate them in the most abhorrent of ways, then murder them. No, my ladies. I do not care for the dance at all."

A look at the older girls' faces told him he had gone too far. The color had drained from their cheeks.

"What does violate mean?" said Delphinium.

"Nothing, don't worry about it," Azalea hastily said in a low voice.

Fairweller, angry with himself, bowed, placed his hat back on his head, pivoted about and left. One of the younger princesses behind him threw a pine-cone at his hat, knocking it off. It landed on the grass. Fairweller did not bother to pick it up, his ill humor expanding.

"That's Fairweller for you," said Bramble's voice in the distance. "I think if there was a law that made happiness illegal, he'd sign it-"

The rustling of skirts and footfalls behind him made him turn; Miss Clover, her cheeks still flushed and her hair flowing out behind her, held Minister Fairweller's hat, and ran to catch up to him.

Fairweller bowed.

"I'm-I'm s-sorry," she said breathlessly, when she reached his side. She offered his hat back to him. "I-I w-wish my sisters were k-k-kinder to you."

Minister Fairweller placed the hat on his head, feeling the warmth of her company. His words had been true; but he felt ashamed for them.

"They are kind enough," he said. "I daresay I have not been exceeding warm to your family."

"Oh, but-but you have," said Miss Clover, hurrying to walk with him. Fairweller slowed his pace. Her skirts brushed against his legs as she continued. "You-you show it in a d-d-different way. You-paid for Mother's medicines-"

Fairweller stopped abruptly and turned to Clover, face pale.

"How do you know about that?" he said.

Clover stood her ground.

"M-M-Minister," she stammered bravely, "I d-d-daresay there is nothing I do not know about you."

Fairweller's brows creased.

Clover closed her eyes, inhaled, and recited with sweet, assured tones:

_ "Orphaned at the age of seventeen, Fitzwilliam Johann Fairweller brought his family's fortune from the brink of destruction to prosperity through horse breeding and investments. Son of former Prime Minister Alvera Fairweller, Fitzwilliam Fairweller-a Temperance man-was elected as Eathesburian Prime Minister in eighteen-hundred-and-fifty-seven at the exceeding young age of twenty-four, running on the platform of financial stability and reduced Monarchal authority, and in only several short years has hastened Eathesbury into economic industry and has already been re-elected..."_

Clover trailed off.

"I-I-I daresay I have it m-memorized," she admitted, blushing at her feet. "The first part-orphaned-I am-so sorry."

Fairweller was speechless. She had, for one, just recited a passage of _Eathesburian Prime Ministers 1647-Present_ without a stutter. For another...if she knew everything about him...did she know about his funding the Yuletide Ball? Or his lengthy delegations to Delchastire, so the King could remain at the side of his ill wife? Did she know that Fairweller helped pay the servants' wages? The King was far too proud to accept any money, and Fairweller had done paperwork gymnastics to keep him from finding out.

Did she know, he thought, how much he utterly cared for her family?

_And her? _

Uncomfortable in the presence of this angel, Fairweller bowed deeply, excused himself from her company, still awash in her glow. All the unpleasantness had transformed into warmth and tenderness inside him.

Fairweller arrived at the Portrait Gallery doors over an hour later, turned the key left in the keyhole, and opened the doors to reveal a young gentleman with wirey hair, banging about among the display cases.

"Lord Bachmeier?" said Fairweller.

"I haf been locked in here for three hours!" said Lord Bachmeier, kicking the wall.

"How convenient. That is just the amount of time it took for me to procure a ticket for you back to Werttemberg." Fairwellerdrew the stagecoach ticket from his suitcoat pocket, which he had purchased just an hour before. "A coach is waiting at the station. And you know how they hate to be kept waiting."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Fairweller had not seen Clover for three weeks, keeping to parliamentary business and to his own manor, maintaining some semblance of an unafflicted man. Clover was never out of his thoughts, ebbing and flowing as gracefully as the ocean. It frustrated him unceasingly.

And then, one afternoon, after the leaves had begun to turn color, it came to a head. Fairweller had come to the Palace for government business, and had decided to ride LadyFair through the wood at the far end of the gardens. The trees and bushes were a tangle here; dried fountains and broken pathways marking a royal family gone to seed.

At the far end of the garden-so far, the Palace was a mere clockwork tower in the distance-stood an old wooden gazebo. The white paint peeled, the wood dried and warped and left splinters in anyone who sat on the latticework benches inside. And as he rode past it this afternoon, Fairweller heard Miss Clover's sweet voice drifting from the structure.

He shouldn't have stopped and dismounted. He should have kept riding. He shouldn't have drawn near to the gazebo, staying out of sight among the overgrown bushes and gnarled trees. He should have left gracefully and never returned. But he did neither, and became witness to something that ensnared him forever.

Miss Clover stood in the center of the gazebo, laughing and teasing her three younger sisters-Ivy, Jessamine, and Kale, who played and danced around her. She beamed and the entirety of the structure brightened, and laughed fondly as Ivy tried to curtsy, and failed, stumbling and falling onto the floor.

Clover laughed, helping her up.

"Oh dear," she said, bringing Ivy into an embrace. "You w-won't be able to do it until-until you're older. You-you _shouldn't_ do it until you're older."

"Show us?" whispered Jessamine, the younger princess with the dark hair and bright blue eyes.

"Oh, yes, please!" said Ivy.

"Oh!" said Clover, laughing. "All-all right. Because there's no one here. You shan't tell anyone?"

The little girls promised they wouldn't tell. Fairweller remained frozen, far too curious and entranced to leave.

Clover took a deep breath, and dipped into such a deep, graceful curtsy that the gardens around her hushed. She disappeared into the pool of black skirt in a fluid motion, her arm extended before her in utter supplication and vulnerability, her golden curls falling over her shoulder as she bowed her head to the floor.

It came to Fairweller as a punch in the stomach and a box to the head. The Soul's Curtsy. He had never witnessed it before. He had no right to witness it, as it was only a curtsy reserved for a wife to her husband. It was beautiful-far more beautiful than he had ever imagined, love and virtue and grace condensed-and reeling, he retreated into the wilds of the gardens. He wandered in a stricken daze until he found LadyFair and, somehow, stumbled into his manor hours later, where he tried to get some sleep, and couldn't.

He imagined Miss Clover in his arms, nestled to his chest, his lips pressed against the crown of her golden hair, her heart beating against his, and he knew this had gone too far. He never should have witnessed such an intimate thing.

And so, the next evening, Prime Minister Fairweller dared pay a visit to the main city's cathedral. To the confessional. Fairweller had never confessed before, but was at a loss of what else to do. He had to purge these emotions; somehow.

In terms of religion, Fairweller was Catholic. Sort of. He was baptized Catholic, as everyone in Eathesbury was, but he did not attend Mass, except for Easter and Christmas, and he did not pray. He _did_ believe in God, but it was a distant, tenuous relationship and Fairweller thought it best to leave well enough alone.

As such, it tore his soul inside to step into the empty, cavernous cathedral that Saturday evening, humiliated to no end, and each step to the arched doors at the back of the church grew slower and heavier. He paused before entering the confessional, the inward battle taking his feet through the door, and onto his knees on a wood step, facing a wood screen which blocked everything on the other side of the confessional, but for the silhouette of Father Benedict's head.

Fairweller's mind fell suddenly blank.

He knew he was supposed to say something about sinning; he could not. He knew he-he had to cross himself, or touch holy water to his chest-or-something of the sort, but all thoughts fled. After what felt like an agonizing eternity, Father Benedict's kind voice said:

"It is a windy night, to be sure."

"Yes," said Fairweller.

Another long pause.

"What is the nature of your sin, my son?" Father Benedict prompted.

Fairweller had to swallow several times.

"I am...in love," he finally said.

There was a pause.

"And?" Father Benedict's voice prompted.

"That is-all, I suppose."

"Is she married to another man?"

"Good heavens no," said Minister Fairweller.

"What is the objection?"

"It is an ill match," said Fairweller. "She truly could have any man she wished for. And her father dislikes me. And she is young. That is-not inappropriately young, she is nearly marrying age, to be sure. But I-I witnessed her in a Soul's Curtsy-in passing-I never should have-and now-I-I feel too close-that is-I-I-It is an ill match!" he stammered. "I've come to the confessional because...I...I need to know how to absolve these affections from my heart!"

The words hung in the air.

And now, it was Father Benedict's turn to let the silence settle in like the snowfall on a winter morning. The wood dug into Fairweller's knees, and he shifted, embarrassed and uncomfortable.

"Minister Fairweller," Father Benedict's voice came at last, with warmth and kindness. "You are a careful man. That does you great credit. But that does not mean you cannot love. There is no sin in longing for someone to share life's burdens and joys. If you call these affections a sin, then here is your penance: You must go to the young lady, confess your love to her, and seek to marry her, if she will have you."

"_What_?" said Minister Fairweller, standing quickly. His head knocked against the ceiling of the confessional and he bit away a sharp word. "But I have said-that is-I was hoping for a remedy to the affliction!"

"And you, my son, are not the physician," said Father Benedict.

The priest's words ringing in his ears, and face burning, regretting every word he'd spoken, Fairweller stormed away from the confessional. He strode out of the church, mounted LadyFair and rode into the night at a gallop. He rode into the paths of the dark wood, the hoofbeats of his horse beating out each scenario in his mind:

Confessing his love to Miss Clover in the gardens. Confessing his love to her in a careful, written note. Confessing his love to her over tea in his manor, or over dinner in the Palace, or alone in the library.

Each and every one of the scenarios ended with Clover fleeing.

Weary as his horse, Fairweller cantered into the open courtyard of the D'Eathe palace, and tethered LadyFair to the marble railing of the entrance stairs.

Five minutes later, he stood at attention in the Palace library before the King, hat rim, gloves, and walking stick clenched between his hands, focusing stolidly on the fireplace mantle behind the King's head, and requesting leave.

He did not say:

I need to leave. I need to remove myself as far away from this family, and Miss Clover, as I can. I cannot let this control me. I am not my father.

But instead said:

"I have several yearlings in Delchastire that I have earnest buyers for, and will need leave for the next three weeks. Is this possible?"

And the King, whom Fairweller could see was already in an ill humor, crossed his arms and very coldly said:

"Well. That is very constant of you, Fairweller. There is much work to do here, but I certainly don't need you. As always, I manage best on my own. Good-bye."

Fairweller knew full well that was not true. The King jolly well needed his help. But he could not stay. He could not.

The King escorted him from the library, and they entered the Entrance Hall in the midst of princesses going to dinner, talking over each other and laughing, but hushing one degree when they saw their father. Clover stood among them, a calm sweetness among the chaos. She looked at Fairweller with wide blue eyes.

"Our Prime Minister," the King announced to them, "who loves his country very much, is fleeing to Delchastire to _sell horses_. Please, Minister, don't let us detain you."

Fairweller bowed to them smartly, and removed himself from the Entrance Hall and retreated out of the Palace into the biting autumn night. Miss Clover extracted herself from her sisters and followed after him, reaching the top of the Palace's entrance stairs as Fairweller was mounting LadyFair.

"Minister!" she called down him. "Will you be gone long?"

"Yes," said Fairweller shortly.

And that was all. He caught one last glimpse of her, shivering with cold in the night air, watching him leave. He wanted desperately turn LadyFair about, run up the stairs to her, and wrap his suitcoat and his arms around her.

Instead, using every grain of self-discipline in his power, he urged LadyFair forward, and rode on into the darkness.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Minister Fairweller was no stranger to the country of Delchastire, a bustling, industrial and powerful island country. His family had owned a manor there, and as a child he often visited. When he was fourteen, his father sent him away to a boarding school in Delchastire. His professors knew him as a quiet boy; exceptionally bright but very serious...they attributed it to his Eathesburian upbringing. His classmates knew him as not much fun; Fairweller often stayed nights in the dormitory, studying.

They knew very little about his family, and Fairweller was all too happy to keep it that way.

Fairweller's father was a...dallier. A philanderer. A rogue. Fairweller had grown up close to his mother, who was often sad. His father traveled often to Delchastire and was gone for weeks at a time. Fairweller never connected the two until he was older. When he was thirteen, his mother fell ill, and passed away a year later. His father's coldness, Fairweller felt, hastened her death.

He and his father had a row. Harsh words were exchanged, which deteriorated to blows. His father, with a broken nose, sent the young Fairweller away to a boarding school in Hastings, the capitol city of Delchastire, and Fairweller wasn't sorry in the least for it.

Here at the boarding school he met Professor Newbold, a thin but very happy man who had great enthusiasm for mathematics. He dressed in black, always, and never drank or spoke a harsh word, and Fairweller discovered he was Temperance. Professor Newbold had a light inside him Fairweller's father had never had, and by the time Fairweller had turned seventeen, he'd become Temperance himself.

When Fairweller's father died-thrown off one of his prize-winning horses-Fairweller did not shed a tear. He packed up his things, said good-bye to Professor Newbold, and returned to Eathesbury in order to take charge of his estates.

Debt. Insurmountable debt. A deep pit of angry debtors and solicitors and nothing to show for it. The Fairwellian finances were in shambles. Fairweller's father had hosted massive balls and parties, entertained royalty, paid large sums to his mistresses-Fairweller discovered he had no less than twenty-seven, a repulsive revelation-and all of them carving chunks from what little money the Fairweller family had left.

Fairweller rolled up his sleeves and got to work. The Delchastrian manor, a palace built by the Fairweller family in the 1600s, was prime real estate. Fairweller shocked society by selling it. He had the priceless furniture inside auctioned. The Delchastrian upper-class was mortified and the gossip columns of the newspapers buzzed for months.

Fairweller did not care what they thought. They were as broke as his father. With the money from the manor, Fairweller paid all the debts, settled on sums with the mistresses to make them go away, invested in Delchastrian townhomes and railways, lived frugally, and bred prize-winning horses. He turned the family's fortune around so quickly that the servants, who at first were not quite sure what to think of their new sober young master, grew doggedly and fiercely loyal to him.

Now, instead of the Fairweller name being synonymous with philandering parties, Fairweller had turned it into something respectable once more. Now owning a "Fairwellian Horse" was a symbol of wealth.

Fairweller had not lied to the King the day he had left for Delchastire...he really did have earnest buyers in Delchastire. One had recently sent him a frenzied letter saying he _needed_ a horse. Fairweller arrived at his stables in the Hastings countryside to discover a gangly young man in rumpled, umatching clothes pacing at the stable doors. He was not, Fairwller learned, interested in horses at all.

The Haftenravenschers-the young Lord Edward Haftenravenscher, and his mother-were eccentric, to say the least. They often donated items to charity auctions, then attended the auction and bid exorbitant amounts to get it back, laughing like mad at the auctioneers' faces.

Everyone tolerated them, of course, because they were wealthy. Fairweller was a step above tolerance. Though he did not know them well, he knew they were kind. Lord Edward Haftenravenscher had offered to repaint Queen Kathryn's portrait, a gesture that gained him respect in Fairweller's eyes.

Now, Lord Edward gripped Fairweller's hand in a handshake so tight the blood stopped to the fingers. His eyes were bright hazel and shone with desperation.

"You're the Eathesburian Prime Minister," he said, gangling after Fairweller into the stables.

"This year," said Fairweller.

"Then you know the princesses!"

Not again, thought Fairweller. His defenses rose.

"Do you believe in love at first sight?" said Lord Edward, desperately.

"No," said Fairweller.

"_I_ do," he said, ardently. "I _do_! Miss. Bramble. _Miss Bramble_. Brambly Brambly Bramble! The very _moment_ I saw her, the very _moment_ my peepers caught sight of her-that _very_ moment! My heart, it _broke. _Broke, I say! Minister! Minister, please-She is the only who can mend it. She's not engaged? I know princesses marry young. Please, tell me she's not betrothed or engaged or any other of those horrible temporary states?"

Fairweller considered him, practically collapsing with love against one of the stalls. What an odd turn of affairs, he thought. Someone who may actually love Miss Bramble.

"She is not," said Fairweller, leading Lord Edward's new horse, a chestnut, from its stall. Lord Edward visibly exhaled with relief. "I daresay, in fact," Fairweller continued, "you may have a chance with her yourself. Have you applied to visit the Eathesburian Palace?"

"I wish I could!" Lord Edward despaired. "The waiting list is _months_ long! It will be at least a year before I can see her! She'll-she'll-she'll-Great buttons, _everyone_ will be in love with her by then!"

Minister Fairweller doubted it.

"I will put in a good word on your behalf," said Fairweller, and he meant it. "Perhaps a Christmas visit is in order."

Lord Edward bounced about the stall after that, beaming so broadly his smile almost stretched off his face. He paid Fairweller for the horse and left the stable without taking it with him. The stablehand had to catch up with him and put the reins in his hand. Fairweller half-wondered if Lord Haftenravenscher could find his way home.

Speaking to Lord Haftenravenscher had put Fairweller straight back into his melancholy temper. It reminded him of how far he was from Clover, and all the other gentlemen who were visiting the Palace. He attended the ballet that night, fashionably dressed-Fairweller always dressed fashionably, in spite of his clothes being black, as he did not wish to shame his servants and the country he served-and agonized the entire time. He remained alone in a mezzanine seat, his arms crossed uncomfortably, sitting ramrod straight to keep from thinking about how Miss Clover ought to be sitting next to him, her gloved hand tucked around his arm...

_Aaaargh_ why did he have to go to the _ballet_...

Around him, the ladies of fine clothes and jeweled necklaces whispered at each other behind their painted fans, casting glances at Fairweller. They were, he knew, verbally matching him with all the single ladies in their acquaintance. Fairweller had inherited the roguish dark hair and piercing eyes of his father, which interested the ladies all the more.

The audience was particularly abuzz tonight, when, half-way through the first act, the Delchastrian king and his sister arrived to their box at the side of the theater. The audience stopped watching any of the dancers on the stage and held their collective breath, praying for a glance from the powerful monarch and his sister.

The Delchastrian king, King Albert, was a boy, hardly twenty, unmarried and unbetrothed. He had heavy-lidded eyes that gave him the look of eternal boredom, petulant lips, and curly, colorless hair that was receding to the top of his head. He wasn't ugly, but he wasn't handsome either. Fairweller watched him as he sat on his chair, putting his legs out and leaning back in a lazy sprawl, his eyes taking in the dancers on the stage.

His older sister, Princess Louisa, had married a Prussian prince several years before and was now heavy with child. She did not look like she wanted to be at the ballet. She looked like she wanted to go home and go to sleep. Fairweller wondered why she would be visiting her brother, and not seeking solitude with her husband at such a time.

_Theirs-Princess Louisa and her husband, Prince Frederick-was a famous love story: They had met when the prince was twenty-one and she just eleven, and she had fallen in love with him. After many years of affectionate love-letters, they were married when she was seventeen, and their marriage was a happy one. No one knew what to think of all that, but royals, they supposed, were a strange breed, to be sure._

Fairweller watched the two royals-because watching the dancers was too painful-and to his surprise, young King Albert looked over the crowd inside the giant theater, and his eyes stopped on Fairweller. A watery sort of smile crossed his face, and he poked his sister and leaned forward to whisper something in her ear. He pointed up at Fairweller.

Princess Louisa looked up toward the mezzanine at Fairweller as well, and straightened a little. She nodded and whispered something to her brother behind her fan.

Nonplussed, Fairweller wondered what they could be talking about. The relationship between the Delchastrian and the Eathesbury royal families wasn't a good one. Mostly because the King had-very _publicly, _on the battlefield, in front of the Delchastrian troops_-_called King Albert a coward, because he had chosen to stay at home in his palace instead of going to war.

Of course what the king had said was emblazoned on every newspaper in the world the next day. It was a wonder the Delchastrian king hadn't ordered his troops to go to war with Eathesbury. A thankful wonder, as Delchastire, the most powerful country in the world, could annihilate Eathesbury with its numerous fleets and endless soldiers.

Because the Delchastrian royals had noticed him from their opera box, Fairweller felt the susurrus around him susurrize with greater intensity. The ladies whispered like mad behind their fans. Fairweller couldn't take it any longer. He stood quickly, gathered his hat and gloves and opera binoculars, and exited into the red-carpeted corridors.

"Minister Fairweller!" a lady's voice called behind him.

Fairweller turned.

Down the long hall stood Princess Louisa, just exiting her opera box and brushing back a strand of her limp dark hair. She smiled at Fairweller. Fairweller bowed.

"Your highness," he said. She smiled again.

"My brother and I were just talking about you," she said. "We would both be quite honored if you could come to our Palace for tea tomorrow."

"For...Royal Business?" asked Fairweller, confused. Normally their prime minister would speak to him about political things, not the royal family themselves.

"No-well," she admitted, "Royal Business of _sorts_. We have some...questions for you. About the Eathesburian princesses. Will you have tea with us tomorrow?"

"Of...of course," said Fairweller, who dared not refuse.

"At two?"

Fairweller bowed.

"We'll send a carriage for you," she said, and disappeared back again behind the curtain of her opera box.

The Eathesburian princesses, Fairweller thought, and dread reared its ugly head inside his soul. The Delchastrian king wouldn't have questions about Miss Azalea, who could not be matched with someone attached to their own country. And it certainly couldn't be Miss Bramble, who would bite his head off at the altar...

The dread grew larger and darker, consuming Fairweller's soul.

The Delchastrian king wanted to marry Clover.

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_{{{{DUN DUN DUUUUUUN the plot thickens! Thanks everyone for your kind comments on the previous chapters! I hope I can make the future chapters worth the wait. They are coming along! :) :) }}}}_


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

At half-past one the next day, a well-dressed steward appeared in front of Fairweller's Delchastrian towhouse, with a black carriage and a pair of flawlessly black horses. Fairweller, dressed in his finest, allowed himself to be escorted several miles to the Delchastrian palace, a white building with pillars, numerous windows, and so many rooms it was rumored the servants often got lost.

The steward led him crisply through the gates of the palace-guarded by dozens of soldiers staring coldly ahead-up the marble steps and through the entrance-guarded as well by soldiers with rifles-through the long, vast halls of marble and painted ceilings, through several more sets of doors-also guarded-until the steward bowed him in to a room of numerous chairs, a chandelier, gold-painted ceilings and a table in a center. It was spread with silk napkins, porcelain teacups, all sorts of scones and jams and cakes, and Princess Louise sat next to it, tending to the teapot. She smiled and stood when Fairweller entered.

"Minister Fairweller," she said warmly. "Thank you for coming on such short notice."

"Your Highness," said Fairweller, bowing.

King Albert was also in the room, pacing impatiently by the tall windows along the walls. He was dressed to perfection, overdressed even, with a necktie that flounced over his vest like a showhorse.

They, all three of them, settled around the table, and Louisa poured him tea and asked him how his manor was carrying on and if he was enjoying his trip to Delchastire and how did he like the ballet? King Albert lay sprawled in sitting position in his chair, arms crossed, his drooping lids giving him a look of eternal boredom. Eventually, after several cups of tea and cakes had disappeared, Louisa carefully broached the subject of Fairweller's visit.

"I am sure you have guessed," she said, setting her teacup down. "My dear younger brother-Albert-has been searching for a bride. He is of that age. That is why I'm here in Delchastire, to talk things over and help him find a suitable match. In our conversations, we-well, we keep returning to the Eathesburian princesses. We have heard-rumors, you see, about the third eldest princess."

"Princess Clover!" said King Albert, speaking the name with relish, the same way a man would announce a circus event. "Such rumors! Such rumors we have heard, Minister!"

"She would not be interested in marrying you," said Fairweller shortly, eyes narrowed at King Albert. He felt such a protectiveness of Miss Clover that he knew-he just _knew-_he was going to end up doing something rash.

"They say she is very beautiful," said King Albert. "They say it is the beauty of storybooks. So beautiful, it is like she descended from heaven, borne-"

"-on the wings of angels," Fairweller finished coldly. "Yes. So I have heard." He set his teacup down with a _clink_ and said:_ "_It is a poor match. The princesses have little dowry to speak of, and I doubt the Delchastrians would care to ally with such a politically insignificant country as Eathesbury."

"Why don't you let _us_ decide whether it is a poor match or not?" said King Albert, just as coldly.

"Minister," Louisa interrupted. "That's why we're hoping to speak with you. We know precious little about Miss Clover-perhaps you could tell us a little bit about her?"

"About Miss Clover," Fairweller echoed, blankly.

"Yes. What is she like?"

Fairweller didn't know quite what to say. He stared at the platters of cakes and creams until they swam in his vision. The truth was, there was _nothing_ he could say that would endear them any less to her. Clover had no faults.

"She is-the kindest of all her sisters," Fairweller said with difficulty. "When the youngest princesses are crying, Miss Clover is the first to dry their tears. She is quiet, and gentle, and has such a tender heart..."

Princess Louisa looked touched. King Albert smiled smugly. Fairweller could have kicked himself. He had allowed himself to get carried away. Quickly, his mind flickered through possible objections, and he grasped hold of the strongest:

"However, they are Catholic," he said firmly, "and you are Protestant."

"Minister, it is only religion," said King Albert, with that horrible smug smile still painted across his face. "Surely you don't believe in such-"

"I am a different matter," Fairweller broke in. "However, the Wentworth family_ is_ very religious. They attend Mass every week. The King would be very much against a Protestant match."

"That is not an objection for us," King Albert said.

"But their financial situation ought to be considered," Fairweller countered. "They bring nothing to such an alliance-"

"We have enough money for both countries," King Albert snapped back. "And my people will like whoever I choose. So help me, I _will_ have the prettiest princess on the continent at my side!"

Fairweller stood so sharply his chair overturned.

"Minister!" said Louisa desperately. "Albert-please!"

"Louisa, please leave," said Albert sharply.

Louisa hesitated.

"Lousia!" Albert barked.

Louisa backed away, looking close to tears.

"Well-I-I need to tend to the servants," she said, blinking rapidly. "Minister, thank you for coming."

She left the room quickly, so quickly Fairweller could not come up with anything comforting to say. Instead, he turned a Gaze of Daggers upon King Albert, who, smiling, walked to a cabinet at the side of the room and pulled a decanter of brandy and two glasses from its shelf. Fairweller did not think much of someone who yelled at a lady. Especially one with child. There were some lines a gentleman did not cross.

"Minister," said King Albert, setting the glasses on the table, and uncorking the bottle. "I can understand what an uncomfortable subject this is for gentlemen like us-"

"I do not drink," said Fairweller, before King Albert had begun to pour.

"Come now, Minister," said King Albert. "Certainly a drink with the king of-"

Fairweller pointedly took the glass, turned it, and pressed it upside-down on the tablecloth. King Albert made a face at it.

"I see," he said, stopping the decanter with a _clink_. "Well. Such a display of beliefs today, to be sure."

"Miss Clover's father would never allow a match with you," said Fairweller, cutting straight to the chase.

"I'm aware of that. The King of Eathesbury is an, ah...difficult man. Too difficult to reason with. But, I believe if I met Miss Clover, became acquainted, you see-she would realize what an opportunity she has at her fingertips. She would, in fact, be the most powerful woman in the world, if we married. What woman does not want that?"

"Miss Clover does not seek power."

"How do you _know, _Minister?"

Fairweller's hand twitched. He wanted very much to punch that smug, annoying little smile right off of the King Albert's face.

"A simple plan," said King Albert, settling back into his chair and steepling his fingers. "Louisa is returning to her husband in Prussia in just four days. Eathesbury is a stop on the journey. So, we come to your manor for some tea. And fortuitously enough, you arrange to have Miss Clover present."

"A fool's mission!" said Fairweller. "She is in Mourning, she cannot entertain tea at my manor!"

"I thought you might say that. This, you see, is bigger than Mourning, I think. I do believe the reputation of the princesses may be at stake. There are rumors, you see."

King Albert smiled at Fairweller's mounting anger.

"Indeed," said Fairweller. "Well then-Perhaps you should cease reading Miss Aubrey's gossip column."

"The rumors are these: The princesses' nightly dances are of a sinister nature."

"Oh, indeed?"

"Rumors that the princesses dance in a magical world with twelve bewitched princes."

"Ha!"

The laugh left Fairweller's mouth before he could stop it. The idea was so utterly ridiculous that the mounting dread had dispersed into incredulity. "I have been in that passage myself," Fairweller said. "Several years ago. There is nothing to it but an old storage room of broken furniture. Hardly sinister to any degree."

"Ah, but magic is a strange thing, is it not? Who's to say? Certainly the papers would consider it a lively diversion. The Twelve Princess of Eathesbury, dancing with enchanted but evil princes, every night...How they would _talk_. It would be difficult for the dear Eathesburian princesses to find a decent match if these rumors...spread."

King Albert ended the sentence with an odd sort of relish.

"What are you inferring?" said Fairweller.

"If the papers did, indeed, decide to spread such terrible things about our dear princesses," said King Albert, looking far too innocent- "Well. I may be able to stop them before anything was printed. Or...perhaps I wouldn't. It's your decision, Minister."

This is blackmail, thought Minister Fairweller, stepping around the table to fetch his hat and walking stick. This man-this _child_-would destroy reputations with falsehoods if it served in his favor. The King had been right, Fairweller grimly thought. King Albert _was_ a coward.

King Albert confronted him before he could leave the room, pulling an embossed envelope from his suitjacket. It bore the royal seal, a blue wax emblem of a lion's head.

"We've taken the liberty of printing the invitations," King Albert said, handing the letter to Fairweller. "Your manor, four days from now, three o'clock. Do manage to have Miss Clover present. Or I believe you will be sorry."

And Fairweller found himself escorted once again, past numerous guards with rifles, to the carriage outside the royal Palace, envelope in hand, fuming, and at a complete loss of what to do.

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_{{{Looks like poor Fairweller's in a tight spot! I am too-I think this story is going to be closer to 9 or 10 chapters! Crazy! Thanks everyone for being so kind and commenting. The story gets better from here on out so I'm hoping to update soon!}}}_


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

The ocean journey back to Eathesbury was a grim one for Fairweller. He spent it, again, pacing around his cabin, worrying the invitation until the corners bent. How _dare_ the Delchastrian king be so-so-

There were no words. Fairweller would never allow Clover to be prey to this child of a monarch. He would smuggle her out of the country first. He would!

Would there be war? Again? At the very least, the princesses would become subject to the ridicule of every newspaper on the continent. Ridiculous lies. Idiocy. Dancing with evil enchanted princes, indeed!

Fairweller sat on his wood trunk and rubbed his face. If only Queen Kathryn were still alive. She had a way of diplomacy that would have stopped any of this before it had even began. Such things came naturally to her. The King, on the other hand, would have an apoplectic fit over the invitation and possibly start a war. This would have to be handled with delicacy.

With apprehension, when Fairweller returned, he spent a bit of time at him manor to make himself presentable, and only hours later was, once again, in the King's library of the D'Eathe Palace. The King, as always, was not in best humor.

"Are you not a member of this household, Minister?" said the King, after Fairweller had knocked, announced himself, and entered. The King remained reading the _Herald Harold, _ not even bothering to look up. He continued. "Or is Mourning simply too much of a nuisance? I am only wondering."

"I'm sorry?" said Fairweller. Already they were stepping off on poor footing.

"The tea!" said the King, shoving the newspaper across his desk like an old boot. "You are entertaining royalty? Are you not a member of this household, Minister?"

Fairweller glimpsed the column the King had been looking at. Lady Aubrey's gossip column. The header read: _King Albert and Queen Louisa to visit Eathesbury; Tea at the Fairwellian manor; Marital Suppositions?_

"They invited themselves," said Fairweller. "I could hardly say no."

"You couldn't?" said the King. "It's very easy. _No_. Place your tongue on the roof of your mouth and finish it off with an _o_. _Noo_. Very powerful word, _No. _It works wonders, Minister Fairweller."

Fairweller slipped the invitation back into his suit.

"I will admit, I am disappointed," the King continued, scowling at the paper. "I expected better of you, Minister. I was starting to believe you were different than your father. But I see I was wrong."

Fairweller could have snapped his walking stick in half.

"Sir," said Fairweller, striding to the door, "if I were anything like my father, I would be a Monarchist!"

He slid the library door shut on the King's affronted expression, and stormed down the hall.

He sought solace in the empty ballroom of the Palace, taking a seat beside a mirror and endeavoring to calm himself down. He was _nothing_ like his father!

The hollowness of the ballroom represented everything that was wrong with the Royal Household since Queen Kathryn had died. The light, the laughter, the happiness...if Fairweller had presented the invitation to Queen Kathryn, she would have spoken to King Albert and Princess Louisa and the entire situation would have already been smoothed over.

Of course...there was Miss Azalea. She was the Lady of the Household now. And to be sure, she wasn't insensible. She hated Fairweller, but she wasn't insensible. She loved her sisters very much. Discussing the matter with both her and Miss Clover would be the proper thing to do. Perhaps she even had the same diplomacy of as her mother.

Quickly, Fairweller produced a pad of paper and a fountain pen from the inside of his suitcoat and began to write:

_Miss Clover,_

_ If you could meet me in the white gazebo in the outer gardens, at sunrise? There is a matter I should discuss with you._

_ Please allow you sister, Miss Azalea, to accompany you._

Fairweller did not sign it, as he planned to give it to Miss Clover himself. He folded the paper crisply over and over again until it was a small square, and stepped from the ballroom when he heard the princesses coming in from the gardens, delighted with how warm it was for the season, talking excitedly.

Kale bounded around the corner into the hall, and Clover after her, her hair wind-swept and her cheeks flushed and laughing merrily, like windchimes. Fairweller's heart stopped. How he had missed her!

Kale halted abruptly when she saw Minister Fairweller, squeaked, and ran behind Clover, tucking herself into Clover's dark skirts. Clover straightened, blushing at Fairweller, and smiled.

"M-Minister!" she said. "You're home!"

"Yes," Fairweller managed to say. Home. Such a warm word.

"Was it-a good trip?"

"Yes."

"I'm g-glad you've traveled safely."

"Yes."

There was an awkward pause.

"I went to the ballet," said Fairweller.

Clover brightened.

"You _did_?" she said, her eyes alight. "W-was it grand?"

"Very much," said Fairweller, a hint of a smile touching his lips. "Beautiful music. You would have liked it very much. I would like to-" He snipped the rest of the sentence short: _take you one day_. Instead he corrected and finished it with "...give you this_._"

He offered her the folded paper square. She looked at it curiously, then at Fairweller, and then gently took it from his hand, her fingertips brushing his palm.

"Clove!" Miss Bramble's voice echoed down the hall.

Clover shyly gave Fairweller a curtsy, then hurried from the hall after Kale, who had scampered off to the dining room.

The imprint of her touch stayed with Fairweller the rest of the day.

Fairweller did not sleep that night. He had given up trying to have a decent night's sleep the days he spoke to Miss Clover. Instead, he dressed in his Sunday finest, with his gold-tipped walking stick and goatskin gloves, and was off on LadyFair long before the sun had risen.

He arrived, once again, at the D'Eathe palace, trotted LadyFair through the gates to the garden, and urged her on for a full twenty minutes, until he had reached the neglected gazebo, so far into the gardens it was now part of the wood. A warm wind gusted through the gardens. Strange, for this time of year. It was the warmth before a storm, and by the clouds on the horizon, it looked to be a blizzard. Fairweller paced the gazebo's wood floor, planks creaking under his weight, hoping Miss Clover and Miss Azalea would arrive soon.

Miss Clover arrived just before the sun's rays touched the hedges, carrying a bundle wrapped in her shawl. Like Fairweller, we wore her finest clothes-a black dress with layers of lace, a bow at her neck, net gloves and her hair-it had been brushed soft as silk, and a beautiful flower was pinned in it. Fairweller was rendered speechless.

"Miss Clover," he managed to say, as she entered the gazebo. "You look...very nice."

Clover beamed at her bundle.

"Thank you, Minister," she said.

"Where is your sister?" he said, seeing that Miss Clover had come alone.

"Here," said Clover. She unwrapped her bundled shawl, presenting a bright-eyed Lily, blinking in the morning light.

Fairweller frowned. "That is not Miss Azalea."

"Well," Clover stammered, "I I-I supposed one sister was-as good as the other and-and-and Azalea was asleep, and-and Lily was awake."

She smiled. Fairweller was utterly useless against that smile, and fell at a loss for words again. He had been depending on Miss Azalea to help sort things out. He motioned for Clover to sit, which she did, beaming.

"I-I had been-been hoping for a meeting like this," she said. "I-I thought it might be-sometime soon-that is-well. M-M-Minister? You seem-vexed."

"I'm afraid I am vexed," Fairweller admitted, which made Miss Clover's smile fade a touch. "There is a delicate situation at hand. I had been hoping your sister would-but never mind."

"I am-not a child," said Clover, straightening. "Can-can you not tell me, Minister?"

Fairweller hesitated, but nodded, and produced the invitation from his suitcoat, and handed it to Miss Clover. Clover took it with reticence, saw the Delchastrian royal seal, and looked at Fairweller, confusion written across her face.

"It would seem, said Fairweller, with much difficulty, "that you have found...favor...in the eyes of the Delchastrian monarch."

The smile had fully disappeared from Miss Clover's face. Brows furrowed, she broke the seal and slipped the card from the envelope. It was a beautiful card; lacy edges and embossed words. Clover read the letter, her eyes growing wider and wider.

"The Delchastrian king," she finally said. "King Albert. It-the invitation says I'm to have tea with-with him and his sister. Tomorrow. At your manor, Minister!"

Clover looked at him as though he had betrayed her.

"I did not arrange this!" said Fairweller. "They were insistent upon meeting you."

"B-b-but why _me_?" Clover stammered, tears filling her eyes.

"Come, Miss Clover," said Fairweller. "You are not insensible. Surely you realize how beautiful you are. And if he knew your heart, he would love you even more. Some things cannot be helped."

"What d-d-do I say?" she said.

"Say no," said Fairweller fervently. "Refuse. You are in Mourning. They cannot possibly expect you to violate such a thing."

"But if I do not-will-will King Albert-will he make things difficult for-for us?"

Fairweller hesitated.

"Oh dear," said Clover, and a tear streaked down her cheek. It fell on Lily's head.

Fairweller could not bear it.

Tell her, he told himself. Tell Miss Clover now. Let her know your regard for her. Take her into your arms, stroke her hair, calm her shaking soul, tell her she is safe. Tell her you would die before you would let anyone hurt her. Surely if she knew she were under your protection, she would not fear...

Fairweller dared to speak-

-Just as Clover set the shawl-wrapped Lily on the bench, and stood boldly. She lifted her chin, defiantly, silencing Fairweller mid-word.

"Minister," she said. "I cannot go. I _will not _go. I will not entertain any such match with even a king of Delchastire because-because-because-because I am _in love with someone else!"_

The wind howled and whistled through the gazebo's broken eaves. It brought with it the first snowflakes of the storm. The air had suddenly grown dark.

"What?" said Fairweller.

Clover had blushed such a deep pink it reached her ears. She did not, however, back down.

"I am in love," she said. "I-I have b-been. For-for ever so long."

Fairweller battled every single emotion within him into submission, and he could only form one word:

"Oh."

Tears still coursed down Miss Clover's face. Silent tears. A weep. Fairweller was still too stunned to even offer her a handkerchief.

"M-M-Minister, this this wasn't...e-exactly what-what I was hoping you-you would say." Her stammer made her words quake. "I-I I I nee w-w-walk, I th-th-think. Good-good day, M-M-Minister-"

She dropped the invitation and fled out of the gazebo, into the swirling snowflakes, coming down thicker by the minute.

Fairweller, still too stunned to speak, was left abandoned with Lily.


End file.
